


Introduction to Inebriation and Insecurity

by aw_writing_no



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no
Summary: Im really drnk. Can u come get me?He hates himself for sending it.He hates the way the typos ring false, like the first faked voicemail he would have left Britta, all purposefully slurred words and half hidden messages. He wonders if he should have taken a few more shots before sending it, or pulled an Abed and drank directly from the bottle. He’s not sure he’s believably drunk, but he can’t bring himself to buy another drink. Because if Abed shows up, Jeff wants to be able to see his face clearly, wants to be able to map the slight downward quirk of his lip and the frown lines between his eyebrows.He wants to remember that Abed came for him.ORJeff gets really drunk and pines.
Relationships: Abed Nadir/Jeff Winger
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	Introduction to Inebriation and Insecurity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jabedalien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabedalien/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tresspassing and Shower Studies; 2nd Edition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943506) by [jabedalien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabedalien/pseuds/jabedalien). 



> Y'all ever love a fanfic so much that you write a fic for it? This is a companion piece to "He Was Never Really Here" and "Trespassing and Shower Studies", by jabedalien. 
> 
> I got home from work last night, re-read those fics, then apparently lost my mind for a minute cause when I came to this fic existed. 
> 
> This can probably be read alone, but you should REALLY read the others first (for clarity, and also because they're gorgeous)

_ Im really drnk. Can u come get me? _

He hates himself for sending it.

He hates the way the typos ring false, like the first faked voicemail he would have left Britta, all purposefully slurred words and half hidden messages. He wonders if he should have taken a few more shots before sending it, or pulled an Abed and drank directly from the bottle. He’s not sure he’s believably drunk, but he can’t bring himself to buy another drink. Because if Abed shows up, Jeff wants to be able to see his face clearly, wants to be able to map the slight downward quirk of his lip and the frown lines between his eyebrows. 

He wants to remember that Abed came for him.

_ Sure. Where are you? _

If he’s being honest  _ (and he never is _ ), Jeff isn’t  _ really _ drunk, just drunk enough to stop resisting his desire to see Abed. He’s way too fucking sober to allow himself to think about what that means. 

Jeff isn’t sure whose car they’re in, finds that he doesn’t care. All that matters is that he can watch Abed’s fingers as they curl around the steering wheel, can imagine what they feel like tangled with his. From his position in the passenger’s seat, he’s close enough to reach out and try to erase the furrow in Abed’s brow.

_ (He doesn’t reach out, can’t ever reach out. If he reaches out for Abed he may never be able to keep his hands to himself again). _

Jeff’s aware that he’s speaking, lies rolling off his tongue, unable to talk about something real (not since  _ that _ night). He’s making up some story about striking out with a girl at L street to explain why he needs a ride home at 3 AM. 

( _ It wasn’t a girl, and he hadn’t struck out. But how can he explain that he had given a half-hearted blow job in the bathroom to the first man he saw wearing skinny jeans and a cardigan? That he had rinsed the flavor of another guy out of his mouth with three shots of whiskey, and chased those shots with the desperate ache to text Abed?) _

He isn’t exactly sure what it means when Abed walks him to his door.

Outside his apartment he fumbles in his pocket, fingers numb from liquor and unable to close around his keys. He thinks about how much simpler it would be if Abed could just push Jeff aside with a chuckle and use his own key to let them into the apartment. His brain stutters around the thought.

He’s half aware of Abed standing off to the side, scuffing his foot and staring at Jeff as he continues to search for his keys. If this were a date, this would be the moment when Jeff turned to Abed and invited him in, leaning down for a kiss that was just a preview of things to come. Abed would moan against his mouth and crowd him against the door, slotting his knee between Jeff’s legs. They would reach for the knob behind them and fall into the apartment, laughing against each other’s lips as they shed clothing on the way to the bedroom.

( _ It’s just like a movie, Abed would say. _

_ Which one? _

_ Take your pick.) _

“Everything okay?” Abed asks. 

Jeff gives up searching for his keys, and reaches for the spare above the door.

After the door is open he turns to stare at Abed. He wants to invite him inside -- for a drink, for a movie ( _ forever _ ). He wants to lean across the threshold and capture Abed’s mouth with his, wants to run his tongue along the seam of Abed’s lips and  _ taste _ him. 

But then he remembers the man from the bar and stops himself. Abed deserves more than Jeff’s drunken advances or some stranger’s sloppy seconds. 

He deserves so much more than Jeff.

“Thanks,” Jeff mutters, and slams the door before his hands betray him and pull Abed into the apartment. He leans back against the door and closes his eyes. A minute passes, then an eternity, and then he finally hears Abed’s footsteps retreating down the hall.

Remembering a stranger’s hands on him makes him feel unclean in so many ways. 

Jeff grabs the bottle of scotch from his bedside table and peels off his clothes, bringing the liquor into the shower with him. After a couple mouthfuls the tile begins to spin around him. He sits at first, then slides on some soap, and finally lays with his back fully pressed against the cool marble floor. He wonders what Abed would think of him, drunk and laid out in his shower -- would Abed think it was weird? ( _ Of course not, Abed would laugh, and trust me, I know weird) _ . Would Abed turn the temperature down so that the water isn’t scalding Jeff’s skin, or would he sit with Jeff until the glass door fogged up and reality seemed a world away?

He wonders if Abed would kiss away the tears that are threatening to spill over any moment. 

Finally the hot water runs out, and Jeff reluctantly turns the shower off. He glances at the bathroom mirror, traces over the  _ You’re special _ that’s been written there for months. His eyes are rimmed red, his nose is running; he is alone, and utterly ordinary.

He sets the bottle of scotch on the bedside table and throws himself onto the bed, closes his eyes to try and stop the room from swooping around him.

He passes out curled on his side, hand extending into the empty space across from him, reaching for someone who will never be there.

* * *

_ Call me please. _

_ P.S. _

_ I think you're special _

It’s been three weeks since Jeff had found the post-it tucked away beneath the bottle of scotch. Three weeks of staring at Abed across the study table, searching for some indication that he had left it. Three weeks of asking to borrow Abed’s notes just so that he could compare the handwriting for the twelfth time. 

Three weeks of dialing Abed’s number, and never pressing send. 

He can’t stop thinking of Abed in his bathroom, staring at the empty expanse of counter and the words Jeff had written on the mirror. He can imagine Abed’s head tilted to the side, asking why Jeff kept his toiletries in a safe. His eyes wouldn’t be judgemental, just curious, genuinely interested in the various creams and lotions (and pills) that are hidden from view.

( _ Abed wouldn’t be judgemental because he understands what it’s like to keep parts of himself out of canon, strictly as subtext. Jeff sees it sometimes, the pieces of Abed that he kept buried. Jeff wants to break through the character Abed had carefully created, to dig through the thrown out pages and find the original. He wants to show Abed that he recognized the reused fragments and worn out references, because he himself was a collage of torn-up scripts. He wants to show Abed that together, they could write something beautiful _ ). 

Jeff can’t stop thinking about the spare key on the door frame, and how much he wishes that Abed had access to his apartment and to every part of himself that Jeff keeps locked away. 

_ I think you’re special. _

What does that mean, really? What does it mean that Abed had let himself into Jeff’s life, into his home, and then left tangible proof he had broken in? 

Jeff isn’t sure he cares what it means. All that matters is that Abed was really there.

“Abed, hold on a second.”

He wonders if Abed can sense the anxiety rolling off him in waves, or if he’s maintaining the infamous Winger facade. It doesn’t matter, in the end; the facade falls when he opens his mouth and finds that for once he has no words. 

Abed stares at him for a moment, presses his mechanical pencil three times. Jeff focuses on the _click, click, click_ , takes a deep breath, and holds his hand out to Abed.

“Let yourself in next time,” he says, and presses his key into Abed’s palm. 

He turns and walks away, and hopes it doesn’t look like he’s fleeing. 

* * *

Jeff’s on step six of his skin care routine when he hears the soft  _ clang _ of his deadbolt turning. He freezes as the door creaks open, as hesitant footsteps grow louder in his entryway. He rinses his face, contemplates gathering the bottles and pills and shoving them out of sight. Instead he takes a deep breath, smiles at himself in the mirror --  _ I think you’re special _ \-- and goes to welcome Abed home.

He leaves the safe unlocked. 

  
  



End file.
